I follow Snowflake’s lead up the street, the moon smiling down on us. Compared to my apartment in New York City, it’s downright tranquil here. Earlier, music blasted from the house next door, f-bombs dropping repeatedly in many of the songs. My aunt briefly mentioned her next door neighbor, “Vaughn.” She texted to say that if I needed anything, he could help, and included his phone number. From the music selection, I’m guessing he’s closer to my age than hers.

The noise level has since subsided, but lights shine brightly. Shadowy movement passes beyond the windows. There are definitely people inside. Music suddenly shatters the quiet, the latest Maroon 5 song blaring through the wide open front door. Inexplicably, Snowflake chooses that moment to bark like someone yelled “dog party!” and run toward the neighbor’s driveway. I tug on her leash because I’m not one to trespass, but she’s crazy for something and isn’t about to back off. Then I realize someone’s walking down the dark driveway. Someone tall, broad-shouldered, and ambling with a loose-limbed grace that suggests he thinks he has the driveway to himself. Whoever he is, Snowflake can’t wait to greet him.

I’m about to call out hello when an engine revs. Red taillights blaze from the top of the driveway, and a vehicle jerks like the driver forgot to release the brake.

Oh crap.

The guy stops and turns in slow motion as an SUV rolls down the drive. I’m close enough now to hear his, “Oh fuck no,” as the car lurches.

He sprints to the center of the driveway and faces the car like he’s the Hulk and can stop two tons of metal momentum with his bare hands. What is he thinking?

“Stay,” I command Snowflake, and run up the driveway. “Hey!” shout.

The guy turns around and oh my God, the car suddenly picks up speed and heads straight for him. “Look out!”

He doesn’t listen, his eyes locked on mine instead. In a burst of super-human strength I didn’t know I had, I tackle him and fling us to the side of the concrete before he’s roadkill.

“What the—” he mumbles then oomphs as we hit the ground. Lucky for me, I’m sprawled on top of him, a slight sting in my shoulder from our initial landing.

Icy fear grips me as I look down the drive, praying Snowflake has stayed put. She has, but being the badass that she is, she’s barking for the driver to get out of the vehicle and keep all hands where she can see them. Thankfully, the SUV has stopped, its back end in the thick green bushes flanking the entrance to the driveway.

A tall blond woman in a short blue dress stumbles out of the car, laughing her head off like she didn’t almost crash into a human being. “Jesus, Vaughn, your ride is as fucked up as you are.” More laughter comes from a second woman climbing out of the passenger seat. Snowflake growls.

Beneath me a low voice mutters, “It is now.”

I turn back to my aunt’s neighbor. A small corner of my mind registers the sound of high heels clicking up the drive and Snowflake’s bossy bark telling those girls where to go and how to get there, but the rest of me is totally focused on the man beneath me. Slammed against his warm, hard body I feel small, his broad shoulders and chest cushioning my fall. My gaze slides to defined biceps straining against his short sleeves. His masculine scent is clean, with a hint of something spicy. Whatever it is, it puts sexy ideas in my head. I let out a deep breath, grateful he’s still in one piece. My heart stops trying to punch its way out of my chest.

Then I raise my eyes to his face, and holy crap. He’s beautiful. The face of a model beautiful. Wait. I think he is a model. Like of the gigantic Times Square billboard variety. His light brown hair is a little longer now, but there’s no mistaking that square jaw and those dark, olive green, come-closer-if-you-dare eyes.

A slow grin takes over his very nice mouth, making my cheeks warm.

He blinks like I’ve all of a sudden gone out of focus. “Thanks for saving my life, angel,”

Wine lover, sleep fanatic, and USA Today Bestselling Author of sexy contemporary romance novels, Samanthe Beck lives in Malibu, California, with her long-suffering but extremely adorable husband and their turbo-son, Hud. Throw in a furry ninja named Kitty and Bebe the trash talking Chihuahua and you get the whole, chaotic picture.

When not clinging to sanity by her fingernails or dreaming up fun, fan-your-cheeks sexy ways to get her characters to happily-ever-afters, she searches for the perfect cabernet to pair with Ambien.